Page 46 of Jacob Michaels is Dead

My mother was sprawled on the kitchen floor, the cast iron skillet, and the pancakes it once held on the stove was at her feet. Her eyes were wide open, and her mouth hung slack—she saw nothing and had no more words to say. Standing there, my small fists clenched at my sides, tears streaming down my face, I waited for my father to return. When the man in the dark hood had burst through the kitchen door and…did…what he did…to my mother…my dad had not been close behind him. Flashes of light had filled the kitchen and what I could only call “war screams” poured from my father’s mouth as he…fought?...with the man who had hurt my mother.

As I waited for my father, I shuffled tentatively towards my mother, wondering if I should try to wake her up. Why wouldn’t she get up off of the floor instead of lying there next to the ruined breakfast? Dad had chased off the scary man with the dark hood, so there was no reason for my mother not to move now. When I got close to my mother, I jerkily reached down, my hand slowly uncurling, reaching for her arm.

“Muh-mommy?” I had whispered.

My hand had barely had time to connect with her cooling flesh before my father had come soaring through the backdoor once again. Fury was painted his face. Until his eyes landed on mine, and he saw me touching my mother’s arm. He came to me swiftly and scooped me up, burying my face in his chest, holding me to him. I didn’t know how to ask him…was my mom dead?

What happened to my mom between the moment I touched her arm, and my dad put me to bed, I didn’t know. We never went back into the kitchen. Dad and I spent the day in the house, refusing to turn on lights, even after the sun went down. He held me in his lap, his arms wrapped around me, not letting go unless I needed to eat or use the bathroom. Dad stayed by my side all day long, whispering to me how much he loved me, telling me stories about my birth, the first years of my life, what I meant to him and my mother. How I would be okay, and he would never let anyone harm me. His lips pressed against my forehead and top of my head more times than I could count in those hours between breakfast and bedtime.

Finally, when the moon was high in the sky, Dad took me upstairs and changed me into my pajamas. Then he tucked me into bed snuggly, the odd smile on his face illuminated by the sliver of moonlight that peeked through the blinds in my room. He whispered to me that he had to “take care of something,” but if he wasn’t able to come back, I would have someone to take care of me instead. Someone who would protect me just as fiercely as he and my mother had. So, no matter what, I shouldn’t miss him if he didn’t return. I was still too confused over what had happened to my mother and what he was telling me to really understand.

But he sat on the side of my bed, stroking my hair and back until I drifted off to sleep. I don’t know when I fell asleep, or when Dad left my bedside, but when I woke the next morning, bright morning light was peeking through the blinds, and my dad was gone.

Knock.

Knock.

KnockKnockKnock.

Wearily, rubbing at my eyes, I stumbled down the steps into the living room, wondering why Dad or Mom hadn’t answered the door. Why was someone allowed to knock so loudly and so much so early in the morning? A flash of my mom lying on the kitchen floor burst through my mind, and I frowned, trying to think of what that meant. As I stood at the base of the steps, the knocking still sounding, I remembered Dad saying that he had something to take care of, so I might have someone to watch over me for a while. Hesitantly, I shuffled over to the front door and grabbed the knob with both of my small hands. I swung the door wide, squinting at the bright early morning light as it burst through the door.

“Well,” I heard a woman’s voice, her figure haloed by the sun, “you’re a lot smaller than I’m used to, that’s for sure.”

Slowly, my eyes adjusted, and I was able to open them a little wider to see who was speaking to me. A woman I had never seen before, maybe a little shorter than my mom was, gray hair, wrinkled face, stern expression, yet eyes that twinkled—imposing for a five-year-old—stood before me, arms folded over her chest. A large suitcase on wheels was sitting on the porch upright next to her, its handle extended, as though she had just dragged it up the steps.

“Who are you?” I had asked, my bottom lip jutting out in what I had hoped was a brave and defiant manner.

I was a man. This was my house. All five-year-old boys think that.

“I’m Esther Jean Wagner.” The woman looked down at me sternly, though the warmth in her eyes was apparent. “You can call me Oma.”

“What’s an Oma?” My nose crinkled up.

“Grandmother.” She waggled her head. “I’m your dad’s mother.”

Without further explanation, she grabbed the handle of her bag and swung it over the threshold into the house. I backed up quickly to avoid getting knocked over by the movement. The lady…Oma?...followed the bag, looking around the house. Once she was inside, she folded her arms over her chest once more and looked around, taking in her surroundings as her bag stood next to her once again. For a beat, I just stared at her back, wondering who this woman was who claimed to be my grandmother. Then, she turned her head and glanced over her shoulder at me. Our eyes met.

Oma.

Of course.

Dad’s mom.

My grandmother.

“I’ve never met you before,” I stated stupidly as I gently pushed the door shut, chewing at my lip.

“I’ve been gone for a spell, Robbie,” Oma said. “But your dad said he had to take care of some things, so he needed me to look after you.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not as mean as I look.” She winked down at me as I rounded her imposing figure. “Usually.”

“You look pretty mean,” I admitted though I wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say.

“I have my moments.” She shrugged sharply. “But you don’t give me no sass, and I won’t sass back. That sound like a fair deal?”

Thinking about this, I slowly started to nod as I chewed at my lip.